My Box-Shaped Heart

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘You, young lady, need to get yourself to bed.’ Cressi opens the door to my room. ‘Look at the state of this place.’ She’s teasing. ‘Appalling.’

  My room is the only one in the house that doesn’t look the way the others do. The bed’s made. My little ornaments are still on the dressing table. My slippers are paired on the rug beside my bed. And my science books – Oh, God. The homework.

  ‘Now you get yourself off to sleep, and I’ll finish making up the bed downstairs for Fiona tomorrow when you’re at school. She can sleep on the sofa tonight.’

  I set the alarm and get into bed, obediently. After a while, I hear Cressi letting herself out, and the house falls silent. I can hear the mumble of the television from the sitting room as I lie there with my eyes closed, trying to get to sleep. Mum doesn’t like sleeping in silence, so she always has the radio or the television playing.

  I realize, as my eyelids feel heavier and heavier and my body starts to drift off, that something has to change. Not just for me, but for Mum. We can’t carry on like this any longer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I wake up to the smell of bacon and the sound of someone singing off key. For a second it pulls me back to the way things used to be, and I half expect to hear Lauren crashing around in the room next door and the sound of Neil singing to himself as he shaves in front of the bathroom mirror. Then, as I shift myself upright, putting my feet on the rug and grounding myself, I remember that isn’t our life any more.

  ‘Holly, are you up?’

  It’s Cressi that’s calling up to me, not Mum.

  ‘I’ve made you a bacon roll.’

  I look at the clock and feel a jolt of horror. It’s eight o’clock. I must’ve slept through the alarm. Mum’s been downstairs all that time and she might’ve needed me and –

  I don’t have time for a shower. I run a brush through my hair and shove on my uniform, pull the covers up on the bed, and head to the bathroom where I wash my face and scrub it dry with a towel.

  For a moment, looking at the pale, freckle-spattered face staring back at me, I wish we didn’t have a no-make-up rule at school and I could layer on foundation and concealer, hide the purple shadows under my eyes, cover my pale eyelashes with black mascara. But we do. So I go downstairs, looking like a sandy-coloured ghost of myself.

  Cressi’s clearly been here some time. The kitchen has been tidied, and there’s a loaded black bin bag on the floor, and another spilling over with catalogues and junk mail, which is already almost full. The room smells sharp and lemony, a cleaning-product scent, which mingles with the smell of cooked bacon and feels comfortable and homey.

  ‘Sit,’ she says briskly, as if I’m one of her Labradors.

  ‘I need to check on Mum.’ I turn, with my hand on the chair.

  She gives me a warning look.

  ‘She’s asleep. The painkillers have zonked her out. No bad thing if you ask me. She’s got a lot of sleep to catch up on.’

  With a firm hand on my shoulder she sort of presses me down into the chair.

  I’m not used to being organized. I’ve been the organizer for so long that I’ve forgotten how it feels.

  ‘Brown sauce or tomato ketchup?’

  I point to the brown, and Cressi gives me a conspiratorial wink. ‘Good choice.’

  She squeezes it on to two rolls and sits down beside me at the little round table. She looks completely out of place in our house. She’s all pink cheeks and healthy walks in the countryside, and this room feels stale and small and airless. But she looks quite happy. It’s weird.

  ‘Eat up,’ she orders. She takes a mouthful of tea and looks across at me. ‘Your mum’s going to need to go back to the hospital today and have that temporary cast taken off. They’ll replace it with a lightweight one – or a boot, if she’s lucky – and she’s going to be on crutches for a good while.’

  I nod. ‘I’ve been thinking. I can’t really do the swimming thing with all this going on.’

  As I was brushing my teeth, I’d realized it, and that I’d need to focus on being there for Mum. It was the right thing to do. I’d swallowed back the tiny little pang of regret that I felt, knowing that meant my chances of ever bumping into Mystery Pool Boy were pretty much non-existent.

  ‘Oh yes you can,’ says Cressi. ‘You’re not getting out of it that easily.’

  ‘What about Mum?’

  I think about her lying on the sofa fast asleep.

  Cressi swallows a mouthful of bacon roll and wipes her chin.

  ‘She’ll be a lot more mobile once they’ve put it in a proper cast. And I’ve told Fiona often enough – I’m her friend. That’s what I’m here for. To be honest, I’m thinking this broken ankle might be the making of her.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘She’s going to have to let me get her organized. By the time she’s back on two feet, I’ll have this house sorted, we’ll get her out and about, and she’ll be back to herself.’

  And for a second it feels like it actually might be possible. Cressi’s so dynamic that it wouldn’t surprise me if she could turn this place back into a home.

  I’m not used to getting a lift to school. I actually feel a bit nervous about it, as if it’s somehow going to draw attention to me. As we turn down the long straight road that leads to the Academy, my stomach is twisting in knots. I’m trying to work out how to say to Cressi that I don’t want her to drop me right outside the front door, but weirdly, as if she can read my mind, she pulls up behind a white van that’s parked on the road opposite the school field.

  She turns round to look at me.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t want me ruining your street cred.’ She chuckles to herself.

  ‘I don’t think I have any to ruin.’

  I pick up my bag. I’ve just realized I’ve left my phone charging next to my bed – not that it’d make much difference because I still don’t have any data. But even so –

  ‘Will you call the school if there’s any problem with Mum?’

  Cressi pushes her sunglasses up on her nose and looks thoughtful.

  ‘Fiona will be absolutely fine. I’m taking her up to the fracture clinic. And we’ll get that house sorted. It’s time enough that you were focusing on being a teenager and getting yourself into trouble and not on keeping things going at home.’

  I feel awkward and bite at the skin on my thumb. Cressi switches off the ignition. ‘You focus on school and being sixteen. I’ll sort this stuff out. That’s what friends are for.’

  For a second I feel like I could burst into tears. My eyes prickle and I feel a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow. I don’t even know why.

  I get out of the car and wave goodbye as she zooms off, back up the hill to our house.

  Our school was rebuilt ten years ago after the old one started collapsing one summer holiday. It’s probably the poshest thing in our town, with glass that sparkles in the sunlight and the sort of view across the water to the mountains that would make your average American tourist swoon. Before class, though, the walkway that overlooks the amazing view is filled with little groups of people who haven’t made it into the common room. I notice Lauren and her friends before they see me.

  It’s a weird situation. When we were sisters, I used to walk to primary school with Lauren every day. We’d share a table at lunch, and share secrets at night. We didn’t have the same core group of friends, but there was a sort of Venn diagram where we met in the middle. But it feels like over the last few months, we’ve gone from politely friendly to . . . Well, I get the feeling she doesn’t want to be tainted by association. I hitch my bag up on my shoulder and hope that I can slink past her group and skip the whole butterflies-in-my-stomach anxiety thing. I’m too tired to deal with it today.

  In among her group of friends, I spot Lauren leaning against the wall. She pushes herself upright and starts walking beside me as I pass.

  ‘You OK?’

  I dart her a look of surprise. ‘Fine.’

  I can feel prickles of swe
at beading on my forehead. It’s sticky and clammy outside, and I feel like I’m melting in my uniform.

  I’m surprised that Lauren’s actually talking to me. Half the time she tries to act as if she just hasn’t noticed I’m there. It . . . I’d like to say it doesn’t hurt, but it does. It feels like my whole life was dismantled, piece by piece. I had a sister; then I didn’t. I don’t know how to say to her that I miss her.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  I look at her again for a moment and try to decide – I can’t face telling her about Mum now, not when she’s got all the usual suspects hanging around. I try to keep a low profile so they don’t have anything on me. It’s worked so far.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Tell her I said hi.’

  ‘I will.’

  The thing about Lauren is I’m conscious that she knows. She knows the state of our house and what it’s like. She comes to visit Mum and has to shove piles of stuff to one side to make a cup of tea, and she knows there might be milk and biscuits, or there might be nothing much to eat.

  I feel a pang of guilt. ‘Lauren?’

  She turns back as she’s walking up the corridor to join the others. ‘Yeah?’

  I shake my head. ‘Never mind.’

  I see Madison’s head pop up like a meerkat – she’s the one who makes me feel seriously uncomfortable. Unfortunately she’s also Lauren’s best friend.

  ‘Holly?’ Lauren cocks her head to one side. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, and out of nowhere I feel like I could just burst into tears.

  Lauren opens her mouth to say something.

  I’m torn between giving her a warning look and worrying that it might alert them to something. She’s not anywhere near as much of a bitch as her friends are, but when she’s with them she adopts a rock-hard carapace. It’s the only way to survive.

  Madison’s eyes narrow slightly as she looks at me. Her ability to sniff out weakness is phenomenal. If anyone finds out about Mum, I’ll –

  There’s a moment where I can see Madison contemplating what to do – she’s the cat, and I’m the mouse, frozen to the spot, not sure if she’s about to strike.

  Lauren flicks a glance at me, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear. There’s a split second when our eyes meet, and I wonder if she’s going to say something that’ll drop me in it – if now is the time when my carefully constructed disguise is exposed. But then she spins on her heel and looks out the window, pointing to the car park.

  ‘Maddy, look – that gorgeous supply teacher’s back.’ She pulls out her phone. ‘Have we got science this morning? I can’t remember this new timetable.’

  Maddy, distracted, looks over her shoulder at the timetable on the screen. One of them whispers something and there’s a stifled giggle. I make my escape.

  ‘You OK?’

  I sit down at the edge of the table in the common room that is reserved for the people who don’t fit in. Allie’s there, her hair piled up in a scruffy knot on top of her head, with strands hanging down over her ears to cover a sparkling row of piercings, which are definitely not allowed.

  ‘Have you started reading the set text for English yet?’

  She puts her chin in her hand and looks at me directly.

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s quite good, actually,’ she continues.

  I smile with my mouth closed. I can’t think what to say. I think I’ve been a social outcast for so long that I’ve forgotten how to do conversation.

  ‘All right?’ Rio gives me a nod and sits on the edge of the table opposite me. His hair is bleached pale at the tips and spikes up. The back’s been shaved. There’s a strict rule about hair dye at school, and I’m not sure how he’s got away with it.

  ‘You did it, then?’ Allie reaches out and runs a hand across the spiky ends of his hair.

  ‘Yes – but I’m in the dog house because I’ve messed up the eco balance of the septic tank or something.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Bleach.’

  ‘That’ll do it.’ Allie came to the school from Birmingham a few years back, and her accent hasn’t softened at all. She offers me a piece of chewing gum.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Isn’t Mrs Lennox going to go mad when she sees it?’ I find myself asking him.

  ‘Hair must be a natural shade, the rulebook says.’ Rio grins. ‘Blond is a natural shade. Just not mine.’

  Allie laughs. ‘I reckon they don’t notice us anyway.’

  I flick a glance at her and Rio. They both stand out because they don’t appear to give a shit. But they’re still sitting here with me in the social-reject corner, not hanging out with Lauren’s friends or even the premier-league gang. They’re the pinnacle of social achievement around here – and Madison is desperate to be part of it. Lauren – before she sort of stepped away from me – used to tell me all about it. Madison spends all her spare time checking up on Kira Matheson and her little Queen Bee collective.

  School is a complicated social structure. I think sometimes it’s easier being one of the rocks that orbits the planet, minding my own business. It’s just a bit lonely sometimes.

  I spend all day half expecting Lauren to track me down to find out what’s happening. It’s the strange thing about families like ours: we were one; then we weren’t any more. But you can’t just turn it off like that. I get the feeling she knows something is up.

  There must be loads of families like ours, where the kids are left trailing after the adults, suddenly expected to start a new life with new parents. Meanwhile the little box room that used to be hers still has the stickers she stuck along the edge of the cabin bed Neil made for her when they moved in. And took down again when they moved out, when he met Clare at work and dumped Mum and me for a new life.

  So when I walk home from school (on my own, to our house at the top of the town on the very last row of houses on the estate), I don’t know why, but it’s not really a surprise when I get back to Miller Terrace and Lauren’s sitting on the wall outside our house. She’s carried on visiting ever since Neil and Mum split up, but when she does I always tend to stay out of the way because I feel like I want her to have space. Maybe it comes across as being a bit stand-offish, but I don’t want to intrude. And she gets on well with Mum.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I sometimes resent the fact that when she turns up, somehow Mum manages to gather herself and be lovely and warm and bright. I know it’s just because she can do it in small bursts, but sometimes I wish she’d fake it for me too. I don’t always want to see the reality of the way she feels. So I just disappear to my room when Lauren turns up, but this time it’s a bit different.

  ‘I was just—’

  ‘Passing?’

  Lauren flashes a smile at me for a second – and it’s genuine – and she pushes me with her foot, teasing, so her bag drops down on to the pavement. I pick it up without thinking.

  ‘Watch the property,’ Lauren says, snatching it out of my hand with a laugh.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, in a voice that tells her I’m not.

  It’s an expensive one – proper leather – probably from somewhere in Edinburgh. Mine came from Falkirk Market, and where it’s scuffed you can see the weave of fabric beneath the fake black leather stuff. I feel a bit ashamed of it and turn it round quickly so the scuffed bit doesn’t show. You get good at that sort of thing when you don’t have much money. It’s almost like a habit. I’ve got excuses ready in case people want me to go places (that one makes me laugh . . . nobody ever asks me to go anywhere), and I can make one drink last ages in Burger King.

  ‘Are you going to let me in, then, or what?’

  Lauren jumps down from the wall and stands by the front door. I feel the familiar lurch of anxiety knowing what’s inside. Even though she knows what the house is like, there’s something about opening the door – it’s like admitting it to myself all over again.

  I try the handle. It’s not locked. ‘You
could’ve just gone in.’

  ‘I didn’t like to.’ Lauren twists her mouth, biting the inside of her cheek the way she’s always done when she’s anxious.

  ‘Holls?’ Mum’s voice comes from the sitting room.

  The front door slams back against the wall and rebounds, hitting me in the face.

  It takes a second before I realize why. I’ve been so used to pushing hard against the sea of crap that has silted up the hall that when the door meets – nothing – it swings back hard. The force has to go somewhere.

  I look behind it, at the space at the bottom of the stairs where the boxes and bags and piles of unopened letters and black bags full of too-small clothes that are destined for the charity shop but have sat there forever should be and . . . there’s nothing. Just the carpet, which looks oddly bare.

  And – I realize – the smell isn’t the same. It smells of something vanilla-ish and sweet, like –

  ‘Well, hello.’

  Cressi opens the kitchen door.

  ‘You’ve brought a friend home,’ she says, looking happy. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? Or do you want some toast? Young people always like toast.’

  I shake my head, catching Lauren’s eye and laughing.

  ‘This isn’t a friend . . .’ I stop, realizing what it sounds like. ‘It’s . . . This is Lauren.’

  ‘Aha.’ Cressi smiles broadly. ‘The mysterious stepdaughter. I was beginning to think they’d made you up.’

  I point to a framed photograph on the wall of the two of us, soaking wet in swimsuits, laughing in the garden. I remember that summer day so clearly.

  ‘Never noticed that before,’ says Cressi. ‘Hopelessly unobservant, that’s me. Anyway, can I feed you two chaps?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any bread,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, there is,’ Cressi says. ‘I’ve done a supermarket run.’

  There’s a crashing noise from the sitting room. Lauren looks quizzical, but I shake my head and roll my eyes as if to say don’t worry. I’m getting used to the sound of Mum’s battles with her crutches.

  ‘Do NOT move,’ Cressi booms in the direction of the door. She points to the space under the stairs. ‘Put your bags there and hang up your blazers. I’ve just tidied; I don’t want this place piled up with teenager rubbish.’